


It’s All John’s Fault

by Liepe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious humour, Farting, Fluff, Humour, M/M, characters might be slightly OOC, how do you tag?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liepe/pseuds/Liepe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a reason why Sherlock will never eat curry and it’s all John’s fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s All John’s Fault

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, that belongs to BBC, the writers and the producers. I am doing this for my own fun and not for profit in any way, shape or form.
> 
> I wrote this long time ago. Actually it was my first Johnlock fic. I figured, why the hell not post it here. Enjoy!

Sherlock gave his stomach another death glare when it dared rumble for the fourth time in the hour.

“John.”

“Not again,” came John’s voice, full of disbelief.

“It’s your fault you know.”

“Yes, well,” admitted John, sounding sheepish. “I didn’t know your body would react this way.”

Sherlock’s glare, if possible, increased and he hissed, “Don’t you dare.” at his treacherous abdomen when it gave another growling sound that only he seemed to hear, and then came the pressure from behind him.

“John.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” sighed John. “Just let it out.”

“But this is ridiculous! Why isn't your body reacting the same way?”

John shrugged. “Maybe my body's use to it and yours isn't?”

“John.”

“Just do it,” this time he sounded resigned, letting out a sigh.

There was silence, a few huffy noises, and then a quiet “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock who was spread out on the couch, clearly looking distressed.

“It’s stuck. It won’t come out.”

“Then leave it and it might later,” John said, going back to his book.

“But I can feel it.”

“Oh for the love of- I’m not having this conversation.”

Sherlock wiggled a little as if by doing that it could be forced out. No such luck. He huffed and tried to think of another solution to his problem. None came to him. The pressure was starting to build and became more uncomfortable by each passing second.

“John.”

“Mmhm?”

“I think it's coming.”

“Just get it over with,” John sounded a bit weary, trying to keep his attention on his book and on nothing else.

This time Sherlock didn’t have to do anything besides add a little pressure. It felt good. It felt damn good. Nothing should feel this good but for some reason (which Sherlock would research later) it did. He gave a sigh and relaxed in the couch.

John sniffed the air before groaning. “Not another one. This flat stinks already without you adding to it.”

Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, it’s not my fault that when you pass gas it occasionally lets off an odour.”

“Where’s the air freshener can?” asked John, getting up and opening the already open windows wider.

“Where you left it I presume,” came the answer, sounding slightly annoyed.

John rolled his eyes before he spotted a tall can with pink, orange and white flowers covering it. Scooping it up, he made sure to point the nuzzle upwards, so as to not repeat what happened last time -his eyes still hurt a little from that- and pressed down, sighing when he heard a whizzing sound and the scent of lilies surrounded him. He did this for awhile, walking around the room.

“I hate it when you do that,” muttered Sherlock, his eyes squeezed shut and head bowed.

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t have to fart all the time.”

“It’s still your fault,” returned Sherlock, ignoring the voice that whispered that he was being childish.

“Yes, okay, I’m sorry, alright? I’ll never take you out for curry ever again.”

“John,” Sherlock said, eyes back to glaring at his stomach. He heard a groan and a mutter of, “Not another.”

“Yes, another.” To this his abdomen chose to remind Sherlock that it wasn’t done and gave a high pitch whine, becoming deeper at the end. The pressure built up again and Sherlock couldn’t hold it in like he was planning to and it just came out before he could stop it. This time it wasn’t silent. It wanted to be heard.

John looked up from his book and stared at him flatmate in disbelief. “Please tell me that wasn’t you.”

Sherlock blushed and chose not to respond, thankful that this one didn’t smell like rotten eggs or something just as ghastly.

John sighed and closed his eyes for the night he was going to have. “This is going to be a long night.”

*

“John.”

“Shut up, Sherlock, I’m trying to sleep.”

“I thought it would only be polite to warn you when I’m going to, as you say, ‘release air’.”

“Not when I’m trying to ignore it and hoping it'll go away.”

“I’ve been doing that for the last two hours. It doesn’t work.”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

“But John-”

“One more word and I will kick you out of this bed.”

There was a huff and a bit of shuffling with the sheet before quiet took over. John was just starting to drift again when he heard it. It started off softly and before gaining volume, making John wonder if next door heard it.

“Oh God,” whispered John, burring his face into the pillow.

“It’s all your-”

“Yes, yes,” John cut him off. “My fault. You’ve said. At least a hundred times tonight.”

“Only twenty-one, John, no need to exaggerate.”

“Can’t you, I don’t know, keep it quiet so I can sleep?” he pleaded.

“John, do you really think I have control over this? You’re obviously less intelligent than I thought.”

John turned over so he was now facing Sherlock, snuggling a little closer. “I know, just wish it would stop.”

“Wishing and hoping are near enough the same thing, neither works.”

John hummed in agreement, closing his eyes when they became too heavy, being lulled by Sherlock’s even breathing.

Sherlock laid there, arms crossed behind his head, watching as the moonlight moved higher up the bedcovers. He knew he should close the curtains before morning arrived but loathed the thought of moving from his spot beside John’s warm, solid body, his deep breathing trickling slightly against his neck, his snoring like Sherlock’s own personal lullaby that kept him company through the night. He let his mind wonder from one room to another in his Mind Palace; mostly entering the room labled John, recalling everything he'd learned about this man and reliving his favourite moments, which happen to be more than he first thought.

John gave a tiny whimper and moved around a little before continuing his night song. Sherlock gave the sleeping man a real, fully content smile, not wanting to be anywhere else in the world at that moment.

He was so wrapped up with his thinking that he didn’t realise he had stopped farting a long time ago. Right after John had wished it to stop.


End file.
